A Spider's Thread
by dennyj
Summary: Tag to Menace. Daniel's point of view after the events in the 'gateroom.


A Spider's Thread

"I want to see you back here day after tomorrow for a re-check."

A bag of meds dangled in front of him. He reached out and took it without comment.

Janet tilted her head. "Daniel? You sure there's nothing else bothering you besides your wrist?"

_Oh, Janet, you really don't want to know. _"Isn't that enough?" The words came out sharper than he intended. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. He rubbed his gritty eyes, still salty from the tears he'd shed in the 'gateroom.

She pursed her lips, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yes, I'd say a broken wrist is more than enough, especially added to the bump you already have on the back of your head."

"Sorry. It's just… been a bad day."

"Which is why I want you to be sure to take your meds _on schedule_."

He nodded his acquiescence, all out of words. Or maybe just afraid of the ones he'd use if he opened his mouth again. Pills wouldn't fix this.

"Do you have someone to drive you home?"

"Yeah, no problem." Daniel slid off the bed and grabbed his BDU shirt with his good hand.

"And will you actually let them take you?"

That managed to pull a small smile from him. "Don't worry—I'm too tired to do anything else."

Giving his uninjured arm a fleeting pat, she turned and headed for her office. "Don't forget—two days," she called back.

He adjusted the sling, wincing at a stab of pain from his wrist. One glance around the almost empty infirmary and he headed for the door. On autopilot, he let his feet guide him to his office, occasionally passing a clean-up crew sweeping up the scattered fragments of what had been one of the biggest threats to the planet. No one spoke to him, all intent on their tasks.

Reaching his office, he entered the room that was lit only by the screen saver of his computer. Tossing the bag of meds onto the table, he gently eased himself into his chair.

God he was tired—tired of fighting, tired of arguing, tired of losing. When had things changed? Why had they changed? Not one of his teammates had come to check on him in the infirmary, even though he'd been there for several hours. He knew they were busy checking the base for any leftover replicators, but there was a time when all three would have made it a priority to see that he was all right.

And why did he sound like a small child who needed comfort?

'_Hold still, Danny. Let your mother finish.' A warm hand fell on his shoulder._

'_It hurts…'_

'_I know, dear, but you're being very brave. Almost done.'_

'_Can I… have… a bandaid?'_

'_Of course, honey.' _

He could still see his mother's brilliant smile and hear her gentle voice as they soothed him from across the years.

Daniel pushed the memory aside. Since when did he waste time feeling sorry for himself? Tapping the keyboard, the screen saver disappeared, revealing the last translation he'd been working on. Squinting, he tried to focus on the writing but his vision refused to sharpen. Janet's drugs must be kicking in.

After a few more seconds of straining to read the text, he gave up and shut the computer down. Glancing at his watch, he could just make out the time, realizing it had now been almost five hours since the fiasco in the 'gateroom.

His office was dark now, lit only by the light streaming in from the hallway. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to turn on the lamp. The darkness suited his mood. He sat in silence, the occasional echo of people moving about drifting down the hall.

Was he really surprised that no one had come? Jack had made it abundantly clear how he felt.

'_I don't like most of what you say, but I try to resist the urge to shove you through a wall.'_

Actually, that had been Jack's position for some time now.

Sam had looked at Reece as Jack had—as a machine—while Teal'c had been unsurprisingly quiet. In the end it had been his way versus their way; outnumbered once again.

And maybe they were right. What made him think he could stop the replicators by 'talking' to Reece? All it had gotten him was a broken wrist, and Reece…. Another loss in a long line of failures. Did anyone besides him even care? What meaning did her life—did _anyone's _life—have if no one remembered? Wasn't that what he did? Carry history forward to the future, to make sure it wasn't forgotten?

Rising stiffly, he bumped his wrist on the edge of the table and hissed at the jolt of pain. The ache intensified, spreading up his arm to his chest where it tightened, causing his throat to close up. Once again he blamed it on the meds.

Keeping a hand on the table, he felt his way around to the other side and staggered towards the couch. No one was coming to check on him, therefore no one would be taking him home; he might as well settle in for the night. Sure, he could call an airman to drive him but they were probably all busy with the cleanup. Besides, he just didn't have the energy.

Maneuvering himself onto the couch, he swung his legs up and lay back against the arm cushion, careful not to bump his wrist again. It was throbbing now; he really should take something for it. Instead, he lay cradling his arm, feeling the throb of the injury as it pulsed through his body, and once again he longed for a comfort that couldn't come from pills.

'_Danyel, you must drink this.' A cool hand touched his forehead._

'_What... what is it?'_

'_It will calm the fever.' Warm breath ghosted across his cheek._

_He opened his mouth and allowed her to help him drink. Soft fingers carded through his hair, the scent of a desert flower filling his senses. _

'_Rest now, my Danyel. I will be here when you wake.'_

Human touch. Such a simple thing, but also a powerful one—essential for the soul to survive. How long had he been without it? And why should it bother him more this time than any of the other times he'd been left alone? He'd become good at dealing with it, relying on no one, throwing himself into his work.

But it _was_ different. Somehow he'd come to think of this place as home, and these people as family, and that he could actually make a difference here—that he _belonged _here_. _Things had changed and now he felt as though his connection with this place—with these people—had been stretched until it was as thin as a spider's thread. Too bad it wasn't as strong. He could feel it breaking even now.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and let it out. He felt a familiar stirring, one he'd hoped he wouldn't experience again, one that told him perhaps it was time for a change; time to move on, to find a place to renew his spirit, to remember who he was. Maybe he should listen to the advice of Confucius: 'The scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar.' It was time for him to be a scholar again.

Exhaustion wrapped itself around him and he fell asleep to the faint sound of distant footfalls and the throbbing pulse of his arm.

The End


End file.
